


My short stay with John after I killed myself

by kimberli11



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, M/M, One Shot, Sherlock is a ghost, Short, Suicide, They are Romeo and Juliet I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29005887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimberli11/pseuds/kimberli11
Summary: So, this is an idea I got from Meggie Royer's poem The Morning After I Killed Myself and this video which was made on it.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEX-9exMc1A&t=2s&ab_channel=illneasI hope you enjoy this one shot.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	My short stay with John after I killed myself

The sounds of birds chirping woke me up. I haven't slept in a long time but well...this was a weird time. I got up and went to the living room to see John sitting in my chair as he did the whole night. He looked tired, I am sure he didn't sleep today. Isn't he cold? It was the middle of January. 

John suddenly moved and looked in my direction. I smiled, wondering if he noticed me, but he didn't. I sighed and went to pick up my violin. I started playing the saddest melody that came into my mind, but I stopped after a short while, because John suddenly started sobbing. 

"John," I put my violin away and walked up behind him. I wrapped my arms around him, but they went right through. There wasn't anything I could do. 

The next day I found him lying on my bed, his face was buried in the back of my violin. So that's why I couldn't find it before. I sat next to him, wondering why I can touch things but not people.

When John came home after the funeral, I was waiting for him on the couch, lying like I always did when I was alive, deep in thought. "Hello would be nice," he murmured and I sat up. "John, you can see me?!" I raised my voice with relieve, but he ignored me. Instead, his eyes caught my chair, as if that's where I was. John, look at me. Why am I even here? Why am I here, when the person I'm here for can't see me?

I thought John would be getting better after my funeral. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson talked to him, and Lestrade talked to him, and Molly...but no. He looked like an empty shell. Right now he was sobbing again, sitting in his chair this time. I sat in front of him and tried to lay my head in his lap, but I couldn't. I don't want to be here. I don't want to see him like this. Is this Hell?

I was sitting on the bathroom floor, when it happened. The faded blood stain in front of the bathtub was still visible. I hated myself before. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror, after John told me how much it hurt him that I faked my death. He shouted at me, told me how much of a selfish bastard I am. I thought he would punch me, but he didn't. He walked out.

When he didn't come back for a while, I couldn't. I couldn't look at myself. I couldn't be without him. My suicide didn't hurt me physically, it was just that dull feeling of despair, self-hatred and weakness. I wasn't thinking straight. For the first time in my life, I let my heart rule my head. And for that, I hate myself even more now.

John came back that exact day. Called my name at the door. I was sitting on the bathtub, right next to my empty shell on the bathroom floor. I was crying for a while there. I tried to unlock the door, but they wouldn't budge. I thought I'd be stuck there forever.

Instead, I heard John behind the door. He was screaming for a long time, before he kicked them down. He looked so fragile and broken, when he held my body in his arms and sobbed into my could shoulder. Maybe even more than my body itself. I couldn't stay there, looking at him for much longer, after he started screaming at me, begging me to wake up and telling me he loved me. I left him alone again. I am a monster, aren't I?

John stopped crying alltogether. He started limping again, instead. He tripped countless times and I tried to catch him, but couldn't. He didn't respond to people knocking at his door anymore. I tried to get them open, to shout at whoever was outside, that John needed help, but nobody could hear me.

One saturday, it all ended. That morning, I found John with the same razor that I used in his hand. Is that why he didn't throw it out? For the longest time, I just screamed at him. I screamed, begged him to stop, but he didn't. He cried again, that time. Sobbed out my name. He was bleeding a lot already, when I finally just gave up screaming and wrapped my arms around him, knowing he could never feel my embrace. I closed my eyes, my own tears and self-hatred overtook me again. 

But the longer I sat there, I started to notice the wamth that I felt. Suddenly, John's hands wrapped around mine tightly and he looked up at me, with the happy look in his eyes that I haven't seen in such a long time.

"Hello, Sherlock. I finally see you now," the tenderness in his voice was enough for me to stop crying.

"Hello, John."


End file.
